


Not On A Map, But In His Heart

by greenJeanKirstein



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Drinking, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Past Character Death, Richard's memories, Takes place after the end of the book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenJeanKirstein/pseuds/greenJeanKirstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard reminisces how him and Francis became close after Henry's passing. He values their friendship, but it seems that Francis has a different outlook to their relationship.</p><p>---</p><p>Had I not known Francis was a hypohondriac, I would have been seriously concerned, but hearing his voice, and being tempted with seeing my friend again, were what influenced me to agree to meet Francis. Of course he did not suffer from diabetes, as all five doctors we visited explained, but commuting from clinics to hospitals had brought us closer than we had ever been. Perhaps the irregular visits and Francis needing a permanent place to stay was what brought us together and what helped us to set our sights on a two-bedroomed middle class house in the neighbourhood Henry had once lived in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not On A Map, But In His Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noahwhelk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahwhelk/gifts).



> I wrote this as a tumblr request:
> 
> sweaterpawsgil said:  
> maybe tsh,ik u said we had to have a Great prompt, but consider a richard×francis fic w the quote "It's not down on any map, true places never are"-moby-dick, herman melville ,like a romance? doesn't have to b an Actual place ?, b cheesy w this amy

After Henry's premature passing, Camilla's unfortunate return home and Charles' escalating alcoholism, that locked him behind the doors of an insignificant rehab centre, me and Francis grew closer than ever. Our relationship bloomed like a little flower - first searching for a place to plant its seeds, fighting toe and nail to stay put and then, after it had earned its place in the garden, grew fast and strong, blooming in the early days of the spring.

 

Although we had not spoken for weeks, Francis had been the one to call me on a cold December morning, asking for a chance to meet up. He missed me, or so he claimed, and without Charles, Bunny or Henry available for a tête-à-tête, I was the only one he could turn to with his problems. Francis said he was sick, suffering from diabetes, and he needed someone to support him on his way from one doctor's office to another.

 

It had only taken me a second to answer. Had I not known Francis was a hypohondriac, I would have been seriously concerned, but hearing his voice, and being tempted with seeing my friend again, were what influenced me to agree to meet Francis. Of course he did not suffer from diabetes, as all five doctors we visited explained, but commuting from clinics to hospitals had brought us closer than we had ever been. Perhaps the irregular visits and Francis needing a permanent place to stay was what brought us together and what helped us to set our sights on a two-bedroomed middle class house in the neighbourhood Henry had once lived in. It was not as spacious as Francis' country house, not nearly as big as the apartment Camilla and Charles had shared, but it was big enough to allow us both to pace through the hallways without bumping into each other if we did not wish to do so, and cheap enough for us to afford the rent without Francis having to mooch off of his mother and without me having to find another job.

 

The first floor hosted a nice kitchen, decorated with flowery wallpaper and wooden floor, which Francis was grateful for, saying that wooden floors weren't as cold during the winters, and that he wouldn't have to worry about catching a cold. The kitchen itself was mostly warm, but not hot enough to keep us from cooking during the warmest weathers of the summer. Next to the kitchen was a small dining room we rarely used; sitting in the seating room, or the living room, as some prefer to call it, our plates waiting on the coffee table for us to clean them, was far more comfortable and it made us develop the habit of having a glass of liquor with nearly every dinner.

 

The second floor held our bedrooms, standing side by side just as the opening to a cave. Although Francis almost never left his door open, I saw enough of his room to remember the mellow lotus coloured walls and the small white pattern running over them. His floors, too, were made out of wood and within the first month after we moved in, he had a carpenter change the boards of the floor to ebony ones, giving his room another royal nuance; which it did not need, as most of his furniture was lavish and expensive, far more comfortable than anything I would have allowed myself to rest upon. The bed he slept on was so supple even my eyes felt at ease when I caught sight of the countless pillows that were carefully placed onto the mattress after Francis had forgotten to close the bedroom door, and the bed had golden, silky sheets, which he changed every week or two, taking a whole day to carefully wash the covers of his bed; I settled with simple, crisp cotton sheets that one could buy from any store that offered cheap beddings and that required no extra care, other than cheap washing powder and a working washing machine.

 

Of course there was a bathroom, but I rarely caught sight of Francis using it. He either bathed when I had already retired to bed, or washed his face and shaved before my alarm clock rang. I used the bathroom unsparingly, enjoying a shower before and after work, sometimes checking my face in the mirror countless times a day, to make sure my stubble was not showing, and that my face showed no signs of the tired and sleepless nights I so often had, more frequently when Henry's birthday got closer and closer.

 

Francis knew it bothered me, thinking about Henry, and he did his best to make my days less full of worry. He showed his care and affection by preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner or by doing the groceries when I could not get out of bed because all my thoughts were filled of a friend whose life had slipped through his own fingers.

 

Of course he still gave me his old clothes, ones that had cost more than I knew to guess, yet that he only wore once or twice, but over the months he stopped handing me his old garments, instead gifting me shirts and jackets that still had labels on them. When at first it had surprised me, it was now a daily occurence for me to dress myself in clothes Francis had helped me to choose or had bought. His taste in everything from clothes to food was excuisite, as usually.

 

I, too, began showing more affection towards my old friend with every passing day. At first our conversations were short and about the life around us, the news, or the weather, but as time passed, we delved into topics I thought I had forgotten how to speak about for good. When in that cold December I had been half reluctant to visit the doctor's with my friend, in March I reminded Francis of his upcoming appointment and in September it was me who called the hospital to ask them if they had any vacancies and if they could admit Francis, who had been complaining of a stomach ache he thought was a clear sign of cancer.

 

December passed as quickly as it came and the long, cold, dark nights didn't seem so lonely with Francis around. During the holidays we visited our friends, both those who had left us and those, whom we had left. On the way to Bunny's grave I drove and Francis drank, when we visited Henry's grave, Francis drove and I drank, and during the ride to Camilla's and Charles' household we both drove and drank, taking turns to make the awful trip float by quicker.

 

The rest of the winter was not as melancholic and somber as it had been around the holidays. We often sat in our cozy living room and watched the fire flicker or tease the logs in the old fireplace, that was a masterpiece despite its age. Almost always Francis wore a white shirt, halfway unbuttoned in the warm sitting room. His plush, bourbon coloured armchair was placed in front of the fireplace more than not, and often he held a frail glass between his dainy fingers. I filled his glass when he asked me to, but on most evenings, he needn't have asked. It was as if I already knew when he wanted some more whisky in his glass and when he longed for some white wine. We had shared secrets and worries, had seen each other battle nightmares and had come to a mutual understanding over the months we had spent together.

 

As I sat there, in front of the fireplace, deep in my thoughts, Francis smoked his tenth cigarette of the evening. His anxieties had worsened due to his mother and grandfather calling to wish him a good Chinese new year, and alcohol and cigarettes were two of the three things that soothed his nerves, albeit temporarily.

 

"I do wonder, what made you fall so deep into thoughts," Francis said, breathing in some of the smoke from his cigarette and then exhaled, his fingers shaking only slightly, as if not knowing if they should catch the drifting smoke or if they should rest on Francis' soft cheek. He looked at me, no, rested his eyes on the image of me, and then smiled, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He did not push for an answer, but I gave it without making him wait.

 

"Mostly us. I find it wonderful how after all this time we found each other again," I reached for the bottle of Moscato that sat on a coffee table between us and poured Francis another glass of wine. Francis thanked me with a subtle smile and a curt nod, tipping the glass and tasting the fruity, almost musky aroma. If I closed my eyes and concentrated enough, I could almost taste the smoke, the wine and Francis' cologne in the air.

 

I opened my eyes to see Francis finish his cigarette. He tossed the leftover nub into the fireplace and then changed the hand that was holding his glass of wine, leaning back against his chair, shirt unbuttoned, hair stylishly tousled, and finished his wine. Francis then poured himself another glass, not letting me do it for him. I, too, poured myself more wine and followed his lead, downing the Moscato and enjoying the sweet aftertaste it left in my mouth.

 

After we had drank the last of wine, Francis brought out a bottle of whisky, the same brand he had loved since Charles introduced it to us, and that had the notes of misery and nostalgia layered under the deep burn of the caramelly liquor. He dropped a few whisky stones into the glass, then poured himself a glass and offered me a glass as well. I did not accept his offer as I was trying to stay sober, or at least as sober as one could stay after drinking two glasses of wine.

 

Francis smiled, but then sat, nursing his drink as quietly and slowly as he always had. On tender and serene nights like these, whisky reminded him of simpler times, times when all of our friends ran in and out of the living room, when Charles often sat at the piano and played tune after tune, encouraging us to sing along, when Camilla and Henry played cards while they waited for the food to cook and when Bunny would pick the glasses from our hands, only to taste what we were sampling.

 

"Richard," Francis broke my train of thought with a whisper of my name and I gave him all of my attention, which he so clearly yearned for. Never had he demanded my attention, but after we reconnected, there was no need for him to demand anything - I so willingly gave him my time and my words, my attention and my worry, almost letting my support surround him in a deathly strong embrace.

 

My eyes on him, he twirled his whisky around in the glass, watched it coat the whisky stones and then drip off of them again, and spoke in his smooth, calm voice. "There's somewhere I want to go, you see. Preferably before the end of the month."

 

I nodded, waiting for further discussion. Perhaps he wanted to go see Charles; we had heard of him cohabiting with a woman he had ran off with, but I always thought Francis found it distasteful and did not know where Charles lived. When Francis stayed quiet, I took it as a cue to speak up.

 

"Where would you like to travel, Francis?"

 

He sighed, moving his wrist in teasing little circles and the alcohol in the glass nearly spilled over the edge. I, too, sat at the edge of my chair, nearly falling out of it as I leaned closer to hear him better and to take in every word that left his mouth.

 

"You see, Richard, this place, it's not down on any map, true places never are." Francis said, a sharp edge inching into his voice. He looked up then, staring into my eyes, not breaking the contact as he finished the liquor in his glass. Francis did not get up to pour himself more and I didn't move either.

 

Confused by his words, yet lured in by the mysterious look on his face, I furrowed my brow, trying to make sense to his words. "A place that isn't on any map... I'm afraid I don't understand. There are no such places, Francis, that aren't on maps."

 

Francis hummed, smiling slightly and I noticed how his smile was wider than before, even showing a flash of teeth, yet still staying friendly.

 

"Is that really so? Are you on any maps, Richard?" He asked me, then got up, making his way to the map that hung on the wall, his shirt still half unbuttoned and showing a sliver of skin that looked even paler and more royal in the light of the fire, and traced a finger over the map. "Let's see... Vermont... Paris... Tokyo. No Richards." He laughed, shaking his head and then walked back, stopping next to my chair.

 

I frowned more, looking up at him, noticing how one of his hands slid off of the top of the armchair to nearly touch my hair, then rested on my shoulder. "Why should I be on a map?" I mused, confusion still lacing my words and covering my eyes like a veil of fog. And then, as if he was Zeus, the God of weather, he ripped the foggy blinds of confusion away from my eyes.

 

"I'd expect home to be a true place, and coincidentally, not all homes make it to the map." Francis squeezed my shoulder, leaning down to whisper into my ear, "And you're what home should feels like, Richard. All those tender mornings, all the times you've stayed up with me when I've needed it, and yet you're not on any maps."

 

It was as if all the words had left my mind. I did know how to answer, but thankfully there was no need to answer verbally. Instead I let Francis' mouth cover mine and tasted the sour tang of spirits on his lips, chasing it by gliding my lips against his and inhaling the same air he breathed out. There was no rush in the kiss, it was as slow and languid as if we had all the time in the world, and at that moment, I truly felt like nothing else excisted in the world - only us, me and Francis, the fireplace in front of us and the living room - and nothing else mattered.

 

Francis was the one to pull away first, but he did not do it harshly. His lips ghosted over my right cheek, over one of my closed eyelids and then touched my forehead for a second. He finally pulled away, sitting back into his own armchair, looking at the fire that licked at the logs in the fireplace.

 

"Perhaps it's the alcohol talking," Francis said after about ten minutes that had been filled with us both staring into the fire, quietly sitting in our own seats. "But I do mean what I said. You're very dear to me, Richard, it would hurt me to give you up. I want to keep you to myself, as selfish as it is, you see."

 

I could understand the meaning behind his words. I felt the same for Francis, who had become my closest friend, or even closer than a friend was supposed to be. Living with him had not been complicated and although he visited the doctors nearly every other week, thought he was terminally ill every time he coughed without having a reason and smoked as much as a chimney when his anxieties got the best of him, his flaws were what made him more dear to me.

 

I stood, and albeit Francis was expecting me to leave, I went to him, helping him up from his seat. He rose as well, slightly unsure of his steps, but as I guided him through the hallway, up the stairs and to the room he had been living in, his confidence returned. His step didn't waiver as I led him to his lavish, soft and supple bed, laying down on the silk sheets with him, and his hands did not shake as he unbuttoned his shirt fully, relieving me of my shirt as well. I had never thought of Francis as someone who hurried or rushed through things and my assumption of him was confirmed as he spent the whole night and the better part of the morning showing me exactly how much his affections and admirations towards me had grown. If in the evening I had not known such a place, that was not on any maps, could exist, in the morning I felt myself yearn to be a metaphorical place, a sign of home, that was written deep into the tissues of Francis' heart.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @ [vicvandal](http://www.vicvandal.tumblr.com)


End file.
